her hands

She likes to drink her coffee black

And talk about all of her cats

Who come to visit around back in the mornings

Her glassy blue eyes flit from her food to my face

“Did you get enough to eat?”

I look at my plate, which overflows with a bounty of bacon, eggs, and toast

All chaperoned by butter, milk, coffee, and orange juice.

“Yes ma’am,” I reply.

I don’t drink orange juice, I can’t stand the pulp

But I gulp–

As I oblige because her hands

Her skilled, swift, withered, wonderful hands

Have woken up to hard work in the kitchen all the 21 years I’ve been alive

She mentions the birds, her eyes dancing– the latest wren, cardinal, blue jay, and swan

that passes by the double window overlooking the winding creek

She tells me about her modeling days and how she felt so wobbly within herself as she stunned on the catwalk

She tells me about her plants and how they’ve grown beyond their pots and how she wishes

How she wishes she could just step outside to bend and tend her roses

The ambition evaporated to a flicker of resignation as her eyes return to her hands

Her skilled, swift, withered, wonderful, beautiful hands

Hands that hold the mug of that freshly brewed bitter blackness

An arms length away from the plastic pop-open pill box

to remind her

6 for the morning and 2 and 1/2 for the evening.

xx

thoughts on this post

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.